


Relief

by absolutelyCancerous (cal1brations)



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comfort, M/M, Pity Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:37:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/absolutelyCancerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not gonna just brush me off—are you listening?—because <i>no one’s </i>gonna sit around and watch you <i>kill</i> yourself like this. Especially not <i>me.</i>”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relief

_Get groceries on your way. I’ve got a $50 with your name on it, slut._

At least he asked nicely.

You don’t mind running errands for Vanitas, not on days where he seems tempted to put a coat over the stove and burn to death. This morning he’d sent you a text asking if you could take Anti to school, and it only took you minutes to be out the door and pick the kid up, taking note of Vanitas being too tired to get up from the couch to give his sibling a proper goodbye. Anti whined about it most of the way.

That was only an hour ago, and once he sent you  _this_  text, you were quick to rush to the store and grab the usual things Vanitas often pesters you to bring over: frozen dinners, some fruit, energy drinks, and milk. You made sure to grab a few others, luxuries like sweets and such, which brings you to the current moment, pulling the bags out of your car and shuffling to the front door.

“It’s open,” a tired voice yells from inside, and you don’t answer as you manage the door open and shuffle into the kitchen, spotting Vanitas with his face on the dining table. You set the groceries down, figure Vanitas is too tired to deal with them, and start putting them away yourself.

“Move.”

He’s taking the Rockstar cans out of your hands, but you can tell how exhausted he is, there’s no force behind it when he nudges you to the side to kick the fridge open and put them away.

“Go lay down,” you tell him, pushing his shoulder when he holds out a hand expectantly to you, “I can do it.”

“I don’t need help. Give it.”

“Really, just go—“

“I  _said_  I don’t  _need your help, Ventus_. Just  _go_  if you’re gonna be a pain in my ass.”

He glares at you—if only looks could kill, you think—and he assumes he can make you step down. But you’ve dealt with Vanitas plenty in your lifetime, and making him park his ass on the couch isn’t something you’re not capable of.

You just go on putting things away, since you’re pretty much the one who decided where things go in the house. Stacking TV dinners in the freezer, putting fruits ready-to-eat in the fridge and ones that need to ripen in paper bags on the far counter. Vanitas gets angry, and you can hear him mumbling at you, but he leaves you to the work with a snarl of a sigh, and you smile lazily with your victory. You hear him plop down on the couch, and you make sure to bring him one of the disgusting energy drinks you picked up when you walk back into the living room, sitting beside him quietly.

He takes the can and takes a single sip.

“Was Anti diff—“

“He was fine on the ride there; he’ll be fine on the ride home.”

He picks up on the fact you mean to pick him up. “I can take him home.”

“I’ll do it; I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Vanitas falls silent, taking another few sips. After a moment, he picks at the pull tab, giving you a little sideways glower. “I don’t  _need_  your help  _all_  the time. Dick.”

You smile, sitting back into the couch and kicking your feet up on the coffee table, ignoring the little hiss Vanitas gives at the action. “You could use it. And, just because you don’t always ask for it, doesn’t mean you don’t need it. Dumbass.”

He’s  _angry_ , when he looks at you. He’s going to spit out something hurtful, you can  _sense_  it, but you cut him off before he has the chance, sitting up and making sure you’re right in his face, so that maybe he’ll understand your words more clearly, the asshole.

“ _You_  listen to  _me_  this time.” You jab a finger against his chest angrily. “You’re  _not_  alone, no matter how much of a sack of dicks you are to anyone, no matter how much you deny help.  _Everyone_  knows it’s hard on you to raise Anti—no one said you had to do it all alone, though. You’re not gonna just brush me off—are you listening?—because  _no one’s_  gonna sit around and watch you  _kill_  yourself like this. Especially not  _me_.”

And Vanitas  _stares_  at you, stares like you’ve spoken in perfect Russian, like what he just heard was literally unbelievable.  His eyes go all wide, not narrow little slits of seething amber, and his lips part just a little bit in his surprise, instead of pressed together in a pissy line. He looks painfully  **human** , right there in front of your face, watching you so incredulously, that it makes you remember that he’s probably got more feelings than he claims; he  _smiles_  with Anti, laughs sometimes, and you’ve even seen  _tears_  in his eyes, when something bad happens to his brother.

It’s probably the temptation of human emotion that drives you to press your lips to his.

It’s kind of weird, kissing Vanitas, because the first few seconds, he’s  _painfully_  still, and it worries you that he might push you away and probably kick you out of the house. But he comes around, and his arms jerk to life, pulling you close, close, close and opening his mouth wide against yours, forceful tongue licking and tasting and _feeling_ , most importantly.

You get a little breathless, noticing your noses are slammed together, and pull away just a little to move into his lap and cock your head before going back in for another taste. The kisses aren’t  _bad_ , but they’re not sensual or loving, they’re demanding and curious, and that’s kind of okay with you. Friends who get attached in the wrong moments (like these) don’t do very well in the long run.

“Do you,” he mumbles against your lips, too enticed to pull away from your mouth, “plan on letting me fuck you?”

He says it so casually, so  _easy_ , that you shudder and give a jerky nod, sliding down to sit fully in his lap, instead of balanced on either side of him on your knees. He smirks against your mouth, instead of kissing you, and his hands hold your hips, press you down against him as he grinds up against you, slow and teasing. He’s going to make you  _suffer_ , either from begging or from embarrassment of the noises that stupidly tumble out of your mouth, but it’s so typical of him, you can’t find it in yourself to really care.

You huff out a few quiet moans at the friction, because it really does feel nice, and slowly take to wrapping your arms around his neck, to make sure you won’t topple off his lap. You press your face to his neck and grin; Vanitas totally loves the smell of AXE, he  _reeks_  of it. Nonetheless, you press your lips to his neck, slow and meticulous, liking the fact that when you pinch the skin there between your teeth gently, you can  _feel_  his breath catch in his throat.

He pulls off your shirt, raking his nails down your back on their descent back down to cup your ass, and you actually groan, tilting your head back and feeling the shivers scamper up and down your spine. It doesn’t hurt, so much as it just feels incredible, and Vanitas snorts at your enthusiasm.

“Gonna let me do anything I want?”

It takes you a minute, to make sure actual words will come, but you nod your head, and mumble a little, “yes,” for emphasis.

“Slut.”

He grinds particularly hard against you, and you moan, high-pitched and needy, before reaching down between the two of you, jamming a hand down your pants to touch yourself, to make up for all the attention you can’t quite get from this angle. Vanitas snorts, clamps his teeth down on your shoulder, hard enough to bruise, before he smirks at you deviously.

“You really  _are_  a slut, touching yourself like that.”

“Then why don’t you hurry up?” You challenge, smiling. It makes your hearts race a little bit faster when you see him  _actually_  smirking back, an action that reaches his eyes, even in his lustful haze.

“Waiting for you to lose the pants, princess,” he retorts, plucking at your belt. You figure that he probably is just too lazy to rid you of them himself, and you roll your eyes at the thought as you fish out your wallet from your pocket and pick out a condom (a total cliché you are very proud of, thank you very much) to stuff in his hands.

“You do that,” you mumble, hopping off his lap in order to easily step out of your shoes. Your fingers fumble with your belt, probably because you’re so excited, but it eventually comes undone and you manage to whip your pants down and off with ease. Looking to Vanitas, he’s sprawled against the couch, almost like he’s lounging, but there’s enough room for you to lay down, too, pressed up against his bare… everything.

“Lift up your leg,” he growls against the back of your neck, moving to bite at your ear and pressing his hips against your ass demandingly. You can feel his breath against your skin, making you shiver with goosebumps, and you allow him to take up your left leg in one strong, almost  _painful_  grip, feeling his other hand guide himself inside.

It’s impulse, it’s second-nature to moan, to arch your hips back and reach a hand behind you to grab his hip in a white-knuckle grip and pull him  _forward_. The two of you line up, head to toe, and it’s the relief that Vanitas demonstrates, with a heavy sigh against the back of your neck, which makes you feel like you’ve helped, in some way, some strange, strange way.

When he moves, it’s of his own accord; there’s no “is this comfortable” or “how do you like this” because it _doesn’t matter to him_ , and that’s  _great_. Not because you particularly enjoy being ignored, but because it means he’s working himself out, losing and  _enjoying_  himself, just like you wanted and what he really needed, even if he refuses to admit it.

He moves and you sing out his name, make sure your  hand holds his hip hard enough to  _bruise_ , for your fingernails to leave little red crescents in his pale skin. When he gets wound up, close to his breaking point, he presses his forehead to the back of your shoulder blade, mouthing the skin and mumbling curses in higher and higher pitches, until he holds you still and tight, hips arched forward and thighs trembling with orgasm.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

He stays like that, doesn’t move (the lazy  _jackass_ ) and you end up finish yourself off, because there’s no reason to really  _not_  to. Vanitas snorts behind you, biting at your ear again and mumbling, “Slut,” against you, the vibrations of his vocal chords making you shrug your shoulder ticklishly.

Time doesn’t matter then. You use Vanitas’ unnatural, silent calm to count how long you stay like that. His breathing is slow, everything is slow—how he turns his head into the dip between your shoulder blades, how me moves an arm against your side. It’s slow, relaxed, and  _that’s_  what you went for,  _this_  is the payoff.

It doesn’t last long; you feel when it all returns, when his head isn’t a haze and his worry rears its head violently. It starts with him shaking his foot, which could almost pass as normal, but then his breathing isn’t as slow, and then he’s trying to get up, telling you to move and jumping up like lightening when you do.

The calm doesn’t last. It never does.

Wiping your mouth, you get dressed, leave a fifty dollar bill for him on the armrest of the couch, and step out the door, not missing his string of curses as he gets himself all wound up once more.


End file.
